


I Missed You Too

by yokomya



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Post Season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-24 03:06:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6139219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yokomya/pseuds/yokomya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian stares up at the night sky, his arms splayed at his side, his head flat against the dust of the dugout, his heart slow and painfully steady in his chest. He wants it to flutter - he wants it to feel the way it did before. Erratic and wild. Nervous and unstable.</p><p>He hasn’t spoken a word since he tumbled down onto his back, into the dirt.</p><p>Neither has Mickey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Missed You Too

Ian stares up at the night sky, his arms splayed at his side, his head flat against the dust of the dugout, his heart slow and painfully steady in his chest. He wants it to flutter - he wants it to feel the way it did before. Erratic and wild. Nervous and unstable.

He hasn’t spoken a word since he tumbled down onto his back, into the dirt.

Neither has Mickey.

And Mickey is sitting next to him - far enough to remind them that they’re only ghosts of what they used to mean to each other. Still, he's sitting close enough to mean something.

It wasn’t even an hour ago that Ian showed up here, at the old baseball field. He sat alone, as he always did at this time of night. He would have left earlier if he knew Mickey was going to show up out of the dark - out of the nothingness.

The first thing Ian expected was to get decked in the face or the stomach - somewhere vital - but Mickey did neither. He didn’t even shout. There was something different in him - as if he had lost something. It was vague but Ian didn’t miss it.

The waiver in Mickey’s gaze when he met Ian’s eyes, the way he sort of halted his footsteps, the twitch in his lower lip.

At first, Ian thought his eyes were playing tricks. No way in hell Mickey could be sauntering up to him, in the dead of night nonetheless. No way Mickey wouldn’t have stormed off the second he saw Ian or dropped profanity or did something aggressive and reckless. After all, he’s Mickey.

Aggressive and reckless sort of come in the fine print.

“You got let out?” Ian had greeted, playing off the instinct to dip out. If Mickey wasn’t a figment of his imagination than he wouldn’t mind settling some of these inner demons.

“Good behavior,” Mickey had responded - tone way off base. Not hardened like a prison inmate or defensive like a street rat or all the awful things Ian had imagined.

“Mmm,” Ian had replied. That’s it.

Nothing else.

And then Ian laid down on the dirt like he had done for the past year. It was a dumb ritual if he was being honest with himself. For some reason he was drawn to this place - for so many reasons actually - and no matter how many inner battles he fought to convince himself out of coming another night, he ended up here anyways.

 

_Don’t go, Ian._

_Don’t do this to yourself._

_You’re better than this._

_You can move on._

_Don’t wait._

 

Mickey should have walked away after that and let him do this crap on his own. He should have left. He should have just _left_.

But Mickey stood there for a good minute and went _mmm_ back, then stepped forward, settled onto the ground without a word and watched the sky with him.

 

_You’re not real._

 

Ian told himself that over and over because it was starting to freak him out -  _Mickey's presence_. He could hear the scratches of Mickey’s shoes against the dirt every few seconds and when he dared to look, he caught the wispy smoke of Mickey’s breath from the cold.

 

_Don’t believe it._

 

The longer time drew out between them, the closer and closer the rift seemed to shift, the faster Ian realized maybe this meant he had to stop running away. Maybe if he talked, Mickey would disappear from his moral conscious. That's what this had to be. His conscious saying  _fuck you, don't forget what you did, you deserve the guilt._

So, Ian closes his eyes and inhales.

“ _You_ on good behavior, huh?” he asks lazily, pretending he doesn’t hate the feigned apathy of his own voice. Pretending he doesn’t _feel_ anything.

“Fucking hard to believe, I know,” Mickey answers carefully, “But it wasn’t all that hard to keep my damn mouth shut. Anything to get the fuck out of there.”

Ian accidentally smiles - thinking about Mickey trying not to blow up at anybody or make threats to the guards - and then turns his head reflexively. A mistake.

Because Mickey is looking at him already and he _isn’t_ smiling.

In his eyes are faded dreams and heartbreak and misery and everything Ian hates about himself.

 

_It isn’t real._

_Mickey’s gone._

_Move on._

 

“Well, ah - you didn’t miss much,” Ian tries to say, lying so naturally he should get a fucking reward. It hurts.

“I guess I didn’t,” Mickey says, lowering his eyes.

And Ian knows what he means without thinking on it. He's known Mickey too long.

 

_You didn’t miss me._

 

Ian quickly gazes back at the stars and wishes he could swallow because it’s getting _really_ hard to breathe. Seconds tick and he’s running out of reasons to dismiss this Mickey as being a screwed up part of his brain. The part that wants to remind him of the old days. How badly he messed up. How badly Mickey messed up. How much they tortured each other.

Mickey must have been thinking the same thing because the next words out of his mouth are spot on.

“We're both pretty screwed up, huh?”

An understatement.

A rush of colors and scents and memories go to Ian’s head and flash over his eyes, take him over. It’s been suppressed for so long, he's overwhelmed.

His heart skips a beat.

“It wasn’t all bad though,” Mickey continues. He chuckles - one that doesn’t quite make it out of his chest.

“It wasn’t,” Ian agrees, no hesitation. But impulsively, the buried guilt and grief resurfaces, and he shakes his head, clearing his throat. “But we’re probably better off now without all that shit.”

He’s too afraid to look Mickey’s way again.

Maybe Mickey will leave now. He’ll vanish into the shadows, down the street, back into the emptiness of Southside. Their legacy will end. They’ll live on without each other. Everything will be fine.

 

“ _Fuck_ \- “

 

Mickey shifts and sits up and grabs Ian’s collar, turning him so that they're eye level. 

“We both fucked up,” Mickey tells him, desperately, “And we went through a lot of shit. You want to throw that away?”

Pain ripples through Ian's core, drying his tongue, spiking his pulse. He wishes he could find the right words but his mind blanks out - the only time it's calmed since they broke it off. 

“You should have walked away - you should have left,” he snaps, sitting up and pushing Mickey’s hands off. “Why the hell did you stick around? I could have taken care of myself. I didn’t need you.”

 

_Lies._

_Not a day passed I wasn't thankful you stayed._

 

“Don’t give me that bull,” Mickey gruffs out, keeping eye contact, “It could have worked. Something could have fucking worked - “

“I was _sick_ \- “

“And I could have helped you - “

“Well, pat yourself on the back because you fucking _did_!”

 

Mickey stares wide eyed at Ian, lips parted, anticipation dressing his features. Emotions overcome Ian and a dam breaks within his soul.

“You don’t know what it was like to act like I didn’t give a shit about you," he says furiously, already out of breath again, "And so what if you helped me - it was _killing_ you. You were better off without me."

They stare for a few beats as Ian swallows again.

"But you wouldn’t fucking _leave_. Then you almost got shot and I - And you went to prison because of _me_ \- I just -”

Ian feels so idiotic for spilling his guts out like this to Mickey of all people. Mickey couldn’t possibly still give a fuck about him. He might be resentful or spiteful but there's no way he still cares. Besides, Ian didn’t deserve to be cared about. Or forgiven.

“We both fucked up,” Mickey repeats, “You and me.”

He ducks his head to make sure Ian is still meeting his eyes before speaking again, voice low and soft.

“ _Both_ of us.”

Ian has pictured this for too long. He's crafted a ton of fake interactions between them. Some ending good. Most bad. But in all the ten million made up reunions with Mickey - none of the outcomes went like this.

“I dated while you were in there, I didn’t wait,” Ian breaks out, hammering in another nail on purpose. Get Mickey to understand why things are done between them. Push him away. 

 

_Let him free._

 

“Good for you,” Mickey snorts - and _wow_ Ian didn't realize how much he needed to hear that sound  - “Is there a punchline or what?”

“I’m serious.”

“Yeah and I don’t give a shit.”

Ian squints and looks away. He feels fifteen again under Mickey’s scrutinizing gaze. Hearing his laugh - as sarcastic as it sounds - brings back too much he can’t face.

“Tell me this, Ian,” Mickey interrupts the thought as soon as it came, shifting closer, voice on edge and seeking.

“Why the fuck are you sitting out here in the middle of the night then?”

Ian’s heart jolts.

 

_Why are you sitting here?_

_In this place that we shared._

 

The silence goes on and Mickey is about to speak - about to drag more out of Ian that he’s scared of - so Ian speaks first.

“I didn’t wait for you," he swears - not as steady as he hoped.

That should do it. That should make Mickey back off.

Surprisingly, Mickey almost laughs, quiet and easy, the way he used to laugh when the two of them were running around the streets with whisky in their hearts and hope for a silver lining on their minds.

 

“Yeah, you did.”

 

There it is. The old Mickey. The knowing, daring, defiant Mickey. The Mickey that Ian fell for - that he -

 

“You said it yourself,” Ian sighs, “We’re fuck ups, Mick."

 

Saying his name makes him lose track of this fake speech - makes him almost lose it altogether.

 

"It’s time to move on," he goes on regretfully, "I dated this guy while you were in prison and he showed me what it was like to be with someone. To actually be _together_. That's when I realized all me and you did was fuck and fight. We were kids - we didn’t know what the fuck we were doing. We dealt with shitty parents in a shitty town and that's how we coped with our shitty lives - Let’s just move past all of it so we can start living something that matters. Something _real_.”

“Goddammit, Ian - “

Mickey swoops in front of Ian, touches the sides of his face so that they’re eye to eye again - dangerously close, so much that Ian doesn’t remember what air tastes like because he’s tasting Mickey’s air now - and he thinks Mickey's going to kiss him but he doesn't. He just gazes, fond and honest.

 

“Tell me what to do,” Mickey breathes out, “I’ll do whatever the fuck you want, Ian. Because I _know_ this is real.”

 

Ian is speechless. His mind fizzes over. His fingers tremor in the dirt. His face is warm in between Mickey’s promising hands.

“I’ve waited a fucking year to say this to you,” Mickey inhales sharply, “I’m sorry for all the shit I did. Everything I never apologized for. Every time I hit you. Every time I hurt you. I can’t take all that back as if it didn’t happen. It _did_ happen. I don’t know if I can ever make up for it  - but I can spend lifetimes trying if you don’t give up on me.”

 

_Don't give up on us._

 

Ian shudders and never forgotten emotions course through his veins as he stares deeply into Mickey’s dilated irises.

 

_It’s not all your fault._

_I’m sorry._

_I hurt you too._

_I fucked up too._

_I’m so sorry._

 

“I haven’t,” Ian whispers - the heavy words lifting off his body like they were waiting centuries to escape. “I never gave up.”

 

The relief that crosses over Mickey’s face reflects the relief that pools over inside Ian’s body.

 

“Thank fucking God,” Mickey let’s out and he leans forward and brushes his lips smoothly over Ian’s, tracing a thumb down the side of his face. In that small touch, it should be insignificant - there's hope and a future and they can make this work. Ian kisses back so hard and so needy that Mickey has to grasp his arms not to fall over because he didn’t realize how long he’s been underwater until he’s found air again.

 

_I missed you too._

 

All the self loathing and hatred is still there. The bad memories are still etched deep into their skin. But so are the good ones.

And eventually, the scars will heal.

Because they’ll piece each other back together.


End file.
